


Wall The Holes Up (with our English Dead)

by disamphigory



Category: Henry IV Part 1 - Shakespeare, Henry IV Part 2 - Shakespeare, Henry V - Shakespeare, Pacific Rim (2013), Richard II - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Coming Out, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prince Hal is totally well adjusted, Richard the mad gay jesus king, bolingbroke's A++ parenting, emotionally constipated conversations, jaegers as metaphors, mixed up timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 14:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disamphigory/pseuds/disamphigory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He wanted to linger there in that raw metal moment and mix the colors in their Drift until Hal had some sort of idea of how they might go forward as father and son, but you can’t chase the rabbit."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wall The Holes Up (with our English Dead)

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the crazy. My friend amarguerite dared me to write this improbably crossover that will no doubt come back to bite me.
> 
> Some warnings: Major Character deaths. Everyone says "fuck" a lot. There's suicidal ideation. And cancer. Also, lots of gay but no actual sexy-times. Come for the angst; stay for the angst.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

The slap of his father’s disappointment was louder in the Drift. Hal rode the memory out from both perspectives: his own shock and underlying muddy brown shame of being hit by _his own father for fucksake_ in the middle of the Shatterdome; his father’s white-gold-purple flash of anger and the undertow of both their umber self-hatred. He wanted to linger there in that raw metal moment and mix the colors in their Drift until Hal had some sort of idea of how they might go forward, but you can’t chase the rabbit.

They fell through the years in a jumble of memories, in childhood so similar in facial features that it was only their different clothing styles which distinguished _pater et filio_. Hal was scampering after a frog in the brook behind their country house, which turned into Bolingbroke dashing after muddy imprints of a swerving car towards the same, now icy, river. Hal’s brief glimpse of Richard, a glittering impression of a laughing mouth and a crown of crumpled daisies that Hal had brought for his father’s friend; Bolingbroke’s view of the same head on military blankets, eyes amused and mouth smirking.

They flitted through years of green meadow laughter and March grey pain in less time than it took for Hal to ever Drift with his old partner. Marshall Gloucester had mentioned that the flavors of bonds in parent-child pairings differed greatly from that of friends, but Hal hadn’t, somewhat understandably, really taken that in until this moment. He could feel through his father’s brain and his own senses that Henry was physically turning to look at him as Hal did exactly what you weren’t supposed to do in a Drift: avoid a subject.

But this was _private_. This was a wound still open and raw like a hand cut on a clam shell. This should have gotten him kicked so far inland from the Shatterdome he could start a farm. This was the risk they were taking, having The Henries in a Jaeger neither really wanted to ride. This was Poins, and this was so, _so_ fucked up.

 

* * *

 

“But England doesn’t even have any territories, or, not important ones, anyway, on the Pacific!” Henry said, reaching across the ridiculous cafe table to poke Richard in the shoulder.

“Oh, as though the distribution of the Commonwealth has fettered your travels before, Bolingbroke?”

“Well, no, _Dicky_ , but I’m not about to go risk my ass for a country I have no stake in,” Henry replied.

Richard looked down into his absurdly tiny espresso cup and bit his lower lip, mouth curling to one side in a smile.

“...You’re thinking about my ass now, aren’t you,” Henry said.

Richard tapped one long finger against the rim of the cup. “It is rather nice, dear.”

Henry took an angry bite out of his bagel and lox. “And that’s another thing,” he said thickly, “how are you, the fucking fairiest of them all, going to get into a fucking world-wide army that half the jar-heads on the globe are creaming themselves to join?”

“They aren’t looking for jar-heads,” Richard replied.

“They are so fucking looking for--”

“--They want people who can fight, not play boom-boom with pre-calibrated weapons or wanna-be World of Warcraft putzes in the States playing with drones,” Richard said. “They are looking for scrappy. They are looking for people who can take a beating, and start swinging as they get up. They are looking for people who fight dirty, who bite and pull hair and don’t care about the rules, because, guess what, Bolingbroke? Kaijus have no rules.”

The sun reflected off the skyscraper behind them, a rare intrusion of light in an otherwise dreary London autumn. Richard was backlit in a golden glow, because of course he was. Henry remembered, reluctantly, that he’d first met Richard on shore leave in a fetid port city somewhere south of the equator. He'd watched Richard beat the masculinity out of two dickwads who thought slapping a twink around was the best foreplay they could provide. Sure, Richard had left some blood on the ground, but these two guys left _teeth_.

He inclined his head and raised his cup of tea to Richard, conceding the point. “The boxing championship medals will probably come in handy, then,” he said, apologizing.

“Quite,” Richard replied, and leaned back in his chair.

This was the stupidest thing he’d ever do. Coming from someone who’d fucked up the family legacy already by having a kid as a teenager, not taking the promised ride to Oxbridge, and joining the military just as Afghanistan was warming up, that was saying something. Henry spared one moment to the thought of his baby Harry, although perhaps baby was a misnomer for a ten year old, and figured that if the kid hadn’t known his dad already, showing up now wasn’t going to actually do either of them any favors.

He stuffed the rest of his bagel into his mouth and gestured at the rest of Richard’s toast with raised eyebrows. Richard sighed and pushed the plate an inch closer to Henry. “‘Fanks,” Henry said, spitting crumbs everywhere. “So, I’m assuming you already signed me up?”

Richard gave him a long, indecipherable look, then slowly nodded. “Of course. This was a mere...formality.”

Henry nodded, “Figured so. When do we leave?”

“A fortnight. We’re going to--” Richard wrinkled his nose, “Alaska, so bring that red sweater I like on you. You’re going to need it.”

 

* * *

 

Hal wanted to sit on the dweeb in front of him and shave his fucking hair off. No, he didn’t know what to do with that feeling, either. Feelings weren’t Hal’s strong suit. The guy’s straight black hair was hanging just long enough to swing over his face and every two minutes and forty-seven seconds (Hal counted), he’d reach up and absentmindedly tuck it behind an ear, whereupon it would begin the inexorable, inescapably distracting migration back towards the guy’s face. Hal pondered hating him, just for this.

“One minute,” the proctor called, and a flurry of scribbles and bitten-off curses surrounded Hal as everyone scrambled to write down their last answers. Hal looked away from flippy-hair in front of him and scanned over his exam one last time, assured that he had already answered everything perfectly. And besides, it wasn’t like they were actually going to prevent Hal _Plantagenet_ from piloting a Jaeger. Not that, you know, he’d registered under his legal name, but he didn’t expect to stay anonymous once they got to the sparring ring.

Hal leaned back in his chair, balancing on the back two legs as the proctor came around and gathered up the fifty-or-so exams. They were dismissed, and Hal let his chair thunk to the floor. He waited for flippy-hair to cram his stuff into his bag and make for the exit. Hal stuck out his leg and tripped him. But, you know, subtly.

Flippy’s hair swung as Hal stood up quickly to catch him from his stumble.

“Oh, dreadfully sorry there. I--oh, there you go, can’t lose your bag, and, er...” Hal stepped away from the man--boy, really--but kept his grasp on the guy’s shoulders. Hal ducked his head to look the guy in the eyes. “Sorry ‘bout that. Er...I’m, uh, Hal.”

Flippy just looked at him, and Hal debated whether to be disappointed by Flippy’s apparent stupidity or flattered by his dumbstruck expression. “And, you are....?” he prompted.

Flippy shook himself and Hal perceived that as the optimum moment to let Flippy free and step back to a more congenial, bro-like personal space until he could tell if Flippy was a fairy. “Oh, I’m--I’m Poins,” Flippy said.

“Hail and well met, Sir Poins,” Hal said, doffing an imaginary hat.

Flippy smiled hesitantly. “Hail and well met to you...uh...”

“Hal,” Hal helpfully supplied.

Poins blushed, and Hal decided that he didn’t care if Poins was already a faggot; he’d make sure he would be the time they got out of training.

“You’re from....” Hal fished.

“Oh, London. And you?” Poins asked as they began to walk side-by-side out of the impromptu classroom.

“London as well,” Hal said, then leaned in closer. “ _The dodgy end_.” He tapped his nose and straightened back up.

“Yeah?” Poins said, trotting a bit to catch up to Hal’s longer strides.

“Yeah. But fuck that, yeah?” Hal replied.

“Er...right,” Poins said.

“You bunking in Eastcheap, then, too?” Hal asked, choosing one branch on the introductory-conversation tree.

“Oh, yeah. Can’t believe they’re going to teach us everything in six months,” Poins replied.

Hal snorted, “As if everyone will last that long.”

Poins inclined his head, “Valid. Some people are just here for the glory, you know?”

“Boy, do I,” Hal replied. “But what, if not glory, dear Sir Poins, brings you to battle?” he asked.

Poins shrugged, “When you can’t afford school anymore, you fuck off to someone who can pay, I guess. Plus, I’d like to do some of the beating up, yeah?”

Hal nodded, and began to consider ways of idly shrugging off his 2-1 at Oxbridge.

They passed some nerds in black hazmat suits that looked oddly like vicar’s robes. “And you?” Poins asked, yelling over the hiss of steam as they walked by the entrance to the repair hall.

Hal smirked and said, airily, “Oh, you know, the usual. Make my father proud and all that crap.”

Flippy was trying to look understanding. Fuck that. “Your dad wants you be a Jaeger pilot, too?”

Hal strode forward so he didn’t have to look at Flippy’s face. “My father doesn’t know who the fuck I am.” He paused, regretted his words for half-a-second, and moved on with the charade.

He pivoted and began to dance, lightly, backward, making sure to smile with his eyes as well as his mouth. “You up for a bit of sparring, now, before the trials?”

Poins opened his mouth, closed it, and began again, “Sure. Someone’s--someone’s gotta kick you across the mat.”

Hal hopped over and began dancing three tiny steps to Poins’ one, suddenly full of restless energy. “Sure, Flippy, you try that.”

“ _Flippy_?”

 

* * *

 

The shatterdome was filled with cheers when they got back in, but Marshall Gloucester pulled Henry to the side of the festivities. Richard was lounging on a throne he’d persuaded some techs to build from a few of Golden Monkey‘s extra parts.

“So, Bolingbroke,” Marshall Gloucester started. Henry dragged his gaze from Richard.

“So, Marshall.” He replied.

“Some of the folks here at the Shatterdome are getting a little....concerned,” Gloucester said.

“‘Bout what? We just killed another Big Bad. Celebrate, Marshall!” Henry caught Richard’s eyes and Richard pulled a funny face.

“Yes. And thank you for that. But some of the folks here were concerned about _how_ you killed this one,” Gloucester said.

Henry furrowed his brow. “We returned her in almost drop-condition, Sir. Cleanest kill yet.”

“Not exactly the cleanest, Ranger,” Gloucester said.

Henry raised his eyebrows.

“Some of the folks--”

“--oh, just say it’s you. You’re concerned about whatever it is. Spit it out!” Henry interrupted.

“--Fine. I’m concerned how much, hmm, _pleasure_ , Richard took in killing today.”

There was a long pause, and Marshall Gloucester coughed uncomfortably and continued, “He was practically cackling, Ranger Bolingbroke, as you two tore open the Kaiju’s throat and let it bleed Kaiju-Blue all over the harbor. I practically expected him to yell _Yippy-ki-yay_.”

Henry looked to the side, where Richard was using what looked like a high-powered drill to open a bottle of champagne. “He was just...excited.”

Marshall Gloucester straightened up and looked stern. “Well, I’m recommending a more rigorous-than-usual trip to medical this time. Just to check if there’s anything unforeseen.”

Henry twisted his lips. “Right. Well,” he pivoted towards Richard, “Good party, then. Sir.”

Marshall Gloucester nodded curtly, and headed for the food table.

 

* * *

 

They weren’t supposed to be on this run, but then again, Poins and Hal weren’t supposed to make it through the piloting trials, either. Poins hadn’t walked straight for a week after they passed their sparring finals; hitting things made Hal hard and that was all he had to say about that. Luckily, Poins was around and liked to be hit. Sparring was their second favorite activity.

But back to the Kaiju.

The idiots inside the fucking old-ass _Falstaff_ were in trouble, because apparently Category Four Kaiju were a thing, now. Rust buckets like _Falstaff_ weren’t rated for anything bigger than an extra-terrestrial guppy, so Hal  & Poins had been awakened by a last-minute alarm to go kick some Kaiju tail.

 _Cloaked Dagger_ was their queen and their home. Yeah, maybe they looked like swaggering assholes on their way to the drop-zone, but what-the-fuck-ever. Hal swiped a hand over a bruise on his cheek from his last sparring session with Poins and kissed his palm. “You ready, Flippy?” he said, leaning into Poins’ ear.

Poins glanced at him through the fringe that was escaping his ponytail. “You fucking bet I am.”

Their suit-up was perfunctory, but Poins and Hal started cracking up once the Drift was finished syncing.

“Something amusing, gentlemen?” Hal heard over the comms.

“You’ve worked out a soundtrack, dude?” Poins said, holding still so they could be hooked into the Pons. His eyes flashed with mirth.

“Every man should have a soundtrack,” Hal proclaimed grandly.

“It’s like, Celtic Trance with some dub-step,” Poins replied.

“Whatever. Fuck you. I’m awesome.” Hal felt a shimmer of affection tingle at the back of his skull where Drift thoughts fluttered, a constant stream between Hal and the one person who actually knew who the fuck Hal was.

“ _One_ drop with that fucker Hotspur and you’re--” Poins started.

“--Commencing drop now,” a mechanical voice interrupted him.

Poins smiled in life and in the Drift, playing out some of Hal’s favorite sparring moves, in the ring and elsewhere. “Once more--”

“--Into the breach,” Hal finished. _I love you_ was for fucking chumps, ok?

Poins knew what was up.

 

* * *

 

“I have wasted time,” Richard said, grinning up at Henry. The gown gaped loosely around his collarbones and washed out his skin and the still hospital air was sky-blue with death. “And now time doth waste me.”

“You’re an idiot,” Henry said.

“Ah yes but I’m your idiot, dear,” Richard said, and looked back down at his notebook, which he was filling with chicken scratch and pictures of thorny crowns. Henry simultaneously wanted to read it and throw it into the Pacific.

“My very maudlin idiot, anyway. Stop making like you’re already, you know---”

“--Dead?” Richard finished for him. Henry had not been able to use that word yet in conjunction with Richard’s name.

Henry nodded.

“You’re right, dear. ‘I’m not dead yet!’” Richard replied.

“You’re--you’re just resting,” Henry continued, bleakly

“If we start up with that, we’ll be here all afternoon, and I have a date with a sexy male nurse and a chemo-drip, so don’t start that again,” Richard said.

Henry squeezed his hand tighter.

“Well, better head onto my date, Mister Sexy Jaeger Pilot. Will you do me the great favor of escorting me to my throne?”

Richard struggled to lift himself up, and Henry darted in to support him. Richard’s hospital gown flapped open with each step, and, perverted as he was, Henry--

“--Getting a good look at the best arse in the ward, there, you know,” Richard informed him, and shimmied his hips. Henry rolled his eyes.

They made their way delicately down the hall to the chemo room. Richard could have requested that they bring the drugs to him, but he liked the socialization, he said. Other people were already setting up in the room, their chemo-companions, as Henry’s asinine name-tag identified him, in varying states of supportive or shocked.

Richard sauntered, inasmuch as one can saunter in a backless gown, to the bean bags in the corner. Henry steadied Richard as he lowered himself to the purple bean bag and settled his hospital gown around him like a debutante ball-gown. Henry ignored the stares he could feel on his back; _yes_ , they were Jaeger pilots and _yes_ , he’d sign their papers or, in horrible cases, _casts_ , but right now was for Richard.

“Come,” Richard said, smiling up at Henry and patting the burgundy bean bag next to him. “Let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings.”

 

* * *

 

They weren’t supposed to be in Sydney.

They weren’t supposed to be in Sydney.

When were they ever where they were supposed to be, though?

But why the fuck were they in fucking _Sydney_ , is what Hal had wanted to know. What did Sydney have, anyway, other than a fucking opera house shaped like a cubist wedding cake and eighteen species of wombats that could kill you with laser experimental death rays.

Oh yeah. Poins liked koalas.

Because that wasn’t an irony that was going to haunt Hal’s memories for-fucking-ever: Poins getting bitten by a bitchy Koala two days before he-- _before he_ \--before he fucking went face to face with a fucking Kaiju and made it back to fucking base before saying fuck you to the world and left. Fuck yeah.

Left Hal, though. He left. Which was funny, because Poins always stood as Hal's right-hand side: walking down corridors, in the Pons, everywhere. Poins was Hal's right-side brain, his right-hand man. Hal was the Peter to Poin's Christ, Hal the Rock with his grinning Redeemer, which was a thought Poins had found to be the funniest fucking thing he'd ever heard, and boy Hal couldn't wait to tell him—oh. But he couldn't, now.

Fuck him. Fucker. Fucking Flippy.

 _Fuck_ this mortal coil shit. Hal didn’t want to hear anything from anyone, and had emptied his most visible bank account and fucked off to Alice Springs to bond with other drunk loners who were trying to forget. He threw a knife through the TV when they started covering the recent Sydney attack, the scythe of the Kaiju--Class Four, they were all fucking Class Fours now--plowing through the Wall like so much paper. The footage someone had gathered of when the Kaiju ripped through the Pons and--

Hal figures anyone would have thrown that knife. He almost got kicked out, until the bartender got a look at his face, then his tab was canceled and they were just letting him pickle himself in the cool(ish) corner at the back. Maybe when he got bored, he’d rope himself a couple of camels and take a long walk into the desert. Once you’ve looked death in the face of your fears and yelled at a Kaiju--sometimes he swore they understood--the prospect of dehydrating into a desiccated pile of picked-over bones was pretty much a dream come true.

“Get up,” a voice said from the direction of the ceiling.

Hal looked up with a sneer, ready to yell at the idiot who was interrupting a man who very clearly wanted to drink alone, and almost dropped said drink.

“The _fuck_.” He said, and placed his bottle on the table.

His father picked up the bottle and peered down at the label. “Jesus,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I wasn’t surprised you went to the most god-forsaken small town on the planet, but I know your mother taught you to drink better than this.”

“ _You_ do not get to say anything about my _mother_ ,” Hal stood to his feet quickly and casually steadied himself on three fingers as his muscles caught up to his brain.

His father met his gaze for a long moment and jerked his head in what might have been acquiescence. He took a swig of the admittedly shitty beer and made a face. “ _Yeah_. No more of that. C’mon, Hal. We’re leaving.”

“I just got here,” Hal whined, and kicked himself. Way to sound like a kid, bro. Fucking fathers.

“You’ve been here two weeks. You’re done wallowing. C’mon, we have a plane to catch.”

“Where are we going?” Hal grunted, grabbing his grubby, well-loved red leather flight jacket from the seat beside him and followed his father--Henry--a few steps behind, as always.

“Our deaths, probably. You coming?” Henry looked back, sun shining from outside and obscuring his face in shadow.

Hal stuffed his arms into the sleeves of his coat and threw a pile of hundreds onto the bar. “Oh, why the fuck not.”

The plane was still spinning its prop, raising red dust in swirling eddies that settled on Hal’s trousers. Henry nimbly jumped up to the pilot’s seat and Hal pulled a face as he climbed into the other side of the plane. Henry handed him a comm with an awkward grin. “Might as well get used to being my co-pilot...son.”

“What.” Hal said, staring at Henry--his father.

Henry was still laughing as they took into the blue sky and Hal popped an acetaminophen and hoped this really was the suicide mission his father had promised him.

 

* * *

 

Hal must have passed out after outing himself to his father via Drift, because he woke up outside the Pons and with a devil standing over him, poking him with a pointy, oil-stained finger. He recoiled and scrambled backwards until he hit the side of the corridor—oh, just near the housing, then. The devil came closer.

“The fuck, Kat?”

“Just checking to see you're alive, _cher_.” Kat said in sing-song.

“Obviously I am, if I'm here and not dead in the Pons. Speaking of--” Hal looked around at the abandoned corridor. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh, well, your dad dropped you here after carrying you through half the base over his shoulder.”

“He _what_.”

Kat hummed and smirked. Hal sometimes hated her. Sometimes she helped him escape the Shatterdome to go drinking alone in the middle of Australia, though. In another life, Hal had admitted to himself, they would have met at the _Sorbonne_ where Kat had gotten her fancy oceanography degree or something and Hal would have stumbled through an introduction and Hal would have taken that seat in the House of Lords and Kat would have run a non-profit and they would have filled the empty Plantangenet estate with little blonde spoiled children and poodles.

But there were Kaiju, and Kat was talking. “...Don't worry, I got plenty of video, Harry dear. You can check the servers for a copy of you and daddy-dearest.”

“Fuck you, Kat.”

“Oh, I love the gentle bully!” Kat said brightly, and helped to haul Hal up the remaining few steps to his room. He draped himself on her sturdy shoulders while she typed in his key (Hal decided not to care how she knew that). They stumbled towards the bed and she deftly maneuvered him into the blankets. “There you go, you big baby.” She stepped back and clapped her hands together. “Now I have to go prevent your father from ending up in the brig for hitting a superior officer. When I left they were starting to yell pretty loud. Something about nobody realizing you and Poins were fucking. How they missed that I don't know. You need to stop playing your cards so close to your muscle-y chest, _mon petit chou_.”

Hal began to struggle with the blankets, but a stint as a nurse meant that Kat had long perfected trapping injured men in their beds with clever blankets. “Wait, Kat. I need to—Kat!”

She opened the door and turned to grin at him. “Can't heeeaaaaar you, Punk-tagenet! See you for breakfast!”

Hal slumped into his pillow and tried not to think about poodles, his father, or Poins.

 

* * *

 

“You never told them you were romantically involved,” Hal woke again to an unwanted intrusion in his personal space. His father was looming over his bed.

“How'd you get the black-eye, old man?” Hal replied, shaking the sleep out of his head.

Henry backed off and snagged Hal's desk chair. Hal sighed when he realized that he and his father had the sam asshole move of flipping chairs around and straddling them to look cool. Hal knew that _he_ did it because when you were an asshole people never asked questions, but he didn't know his father well enough to guess at why Henry did, too.

Henry touched his purpling skin around his eye and winced. “I'd say it's none of your business, but it really is.”

“And you care about my business, now?”

“When you give me a migraine because you lied about how you're dealing with Poins'--”

“-- _Don't say his name_.”

“--dealing with the Recent Traumatic Death Of Your Copilot And Long-time Lover, Hal, it becomes my business--”

“--Oh so _now_ you care,”

“Jesus—fuck, Hal. Yes. I care. You're fucking up the mission!” His father yelled and it was silent. The silence was loud.

“Now that I'm fucking up the mission.” Hal repeated, hollow. “Right. Because what-the-fuck-ever about my emotions, right, dad? Whatever. The _Mission_ is at stake. Well, thanks, but fuck your _Mission_.” He flipped over to stare at the wall.

Hal waited for the slam of the door. This was how conversations usually went, if they ever had them.

“Mission's all I've got, Harry.” His father finally said.

Hal flipped back over. “Don't call me Harry,” he replied.

“Your mother called you Harry,” his father said, smiling a bit.

“ _My_ mother. Who was _around_. My mother, who didn't leave to fight ocean-monsters when I was ten.”

“Not the only one who went off to fight Kaiju, _son_.”

“You didn't even know I'd signed up, _asshole_.”

“You didn't tell me, _sweetums_.”

“Didn't think you'd care, _dad_ , and guess what! You don't. Get the fuck out.”

Henry took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I didn't know you'd signed up for the Jaeger program because you lied to _me_ about what you were doing, you lied to _Her Majesty's Service_ about who you were, and you lied to _everyone_ about what your relationship with your copilot was.”

Hal shrugged.

His father continued in slow, controlled manner. “I didn't know you'd even signed up until I saw that some fresh _kids_ had taken down the first category 4 Jaeger by _impaling it on a cruise ship_. And then I watched the video of you two _children_ swaggering down into the people's arms and nearly got myself court-martialed by stealing a jet to fly to the nearest airport so I could come figure out what the fuck you were thinking, Harry. And then when I found you, you and Po—your _copilot_ , fine—were fanny-deep in a pile of your fans. So, I left.” 

“You said you'd sent me a bottle of whiskey, when we were on that talk show, a year later.” Hal pointed out, having nothing else to say.

“Well, Harry, that was a lie. Maybe you're familiar with the concept.”

“And where did I learn that skill, oh pater my pater?” Hal replied, struggling up to sit upright. He wasn't going to take this conversation literally lying down.

“ _Everything_ I ever lied about was to protect my _family_ , Harry.” Henry yelled.

Hal narrowed his eyes. “But you weren't _good_ enough at it, were you?” He leaned forward. “You were actually so fucking _bad_ at it, that all I heard growing up was how my father was a fucking _fairy_ who had abandoned me and my mother. How ˆ was the lie, my _mother_ was the lie, in the grand tale of Henry Plantagenet. You two couldn't give a fucking interview without everyone on the planet seeing how fucking _in love_ you two were! How did you think that went, at school? Oh, wait, you wouldn't know; you never even went to university, instead running off to shoot things with your _fucking fairyfudge-packing “buddy” Dicky_ , you _fucking faggot_. How do you even _stand yourself;_ you should be _ashamed_. _Everyone_ knows now; everyone _knows_ and they will _talk_ and _talk_ and what makes you think you're worth even stepping into the pons, you _monster_ , you _little nancy boy_ \--”

The sound of his father's slap was loud in the tiny room.

“Please stop talking about yourself like that, Harry.” His father said in a monotone.

Hal dropped his hand from his stinging cheek. “I wasn't. I was talking about you.”

His father looked up at him. “No. Harry--”

“--I could have done it, dad! I was half of the most fucking successful pilot team on the Pacific. _No one knew_. Poins--” his voice cracked, “Poins and I were the baddest, the best. Fucking _everyone_ wanted a piece of this.” He gestured to his rumpled flight suit. “We were rolling in fans, and fanny, yes, and no one knew.”

“Apparently the whole fucking Shatterdome knew except Marshall Gloucester, Harry. That's what I was told after you passed out in the pons from an acute case of 'bottled emotions,' as your darling Kat put it.”

“Kat's a bitch,” Hal interjected, then continued. “But the media didn't know, dad. The _people_ didn't. And by the time anyone would, we'd already proven ourselves the best anyway. No one thinks _fairy_ or _queer_ or _weak_ when they hear the name Plantagenet. Not anymore.” Hal said, panting with emotion. “I fixed that by being _better_ than you ever were.”

“And what did Poins think about this?” His father asked quietly.

Hal bit his lower lip. “Flippy knew what was up,” he replied.

“He was okay being closeted? He was okay with you cheating on him with fans?”

“Hey man, TMI but we definitely shared with the fans ok? And I think he was just fucking grateful to be where he was.”

“On top of the known world? Praised? Glorified? Poignantly eulogized?” His father asked.

“ _With me_.” Hal snarled. His father met his eyes and nodded slowly.

“And now you know how I felt about Richard.”

“Everyone knows how you felt about Richard, dad. I was at that funeral.”

“Managed to squeeze that in between press appearances, did you?”

“Oh, fuck you. I liked Richard.”

“No you didn't.”

“Yeah, I did. Stop putting feelings in my emotions, okay? I did. I liked him. I just didn't like that everyone knew you were with him.” Hal said.

A pause. “You never _told_ me.”

“ _You_ never talked to me.”

“We talked plenty!” His father protested.

“Once I was killing Kaijus, yeah, sure. Right before interview spots. Or for lunch when you were passing through my base.”

“We did Christmas, two years ago!”

“Dad,” Hal slumped back. “ _Dad_. You got me a puppy.”

“A corgi! The Queen has corgis! And then you got rid of it.”

“Auguecheek is living with Poins' sister, because you gave me a gay dog, dad. A gay dog that can't walk around bases.”

“I tried! Okay?” his father said.

Hal sighed and slumped back on his pillows. “Yeah, dad. You tried. Congrats. You tried. Are we—can we be done here? We're cool; you _tried_.”

“I--” his father began heatedly, but then a loud klaxon blared through the small space.

“Category Four Kaiju projected to hit 200 klicks north, two hours.” A mechanical voice recited into the intercom.

His father extended a hand, “You got any more Drift-shattering secrets buried in your brain, son?”

Hal untangled the blankets from his legs and took his father's hand to leverage himself out of bed. “Guess you didn't see the Bangkok stuff last time,” he muttered.

His father pulled him close and tentatively reached up to clasp his arm around Hal's torso. Hal looked down at his father's head, always surprised he was taller than this missing giant of his youth. “Harry,” his father began, speaking into Hal's flight-suit. “I just want you to know that, that I lo--”

Hal interrupted before this shit could actually happen. “You—you know what's up, dad.” Hal felt his father's hand grip his flight-suit tight for a few seconds, then release.

They stepped away from each other and looked at the floor, the ceiling: anywhere but each other. Hal began looking for his boots, hoping Kat hadn't stolen them.

“'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,'” his father said abruptly and Hal looked up.

“Um...what?”

“It's Shakespeare, Harry.”

“...Yes?” Hal sat on the cold floor to tie his laces.

“I don't...I don't fucking know now. You like Shakespeare? Your mother said you liked Shakespeare.”

“...And?”

“So I thought I'd recite some fucking Shakespeare. To mark the special occasion. Get your boots on, Harry. We have ocean-monsters to kill.

“'Kay.” Hal finished and hopped up. He held the door open, “Age before beauty, old man.”

“Fuck you!” his dad replied cheerfully.

They swaggered down the corridors, putting on the show. There were monsters to kill, and these ones bled Kaiju blue.

“You know my favorite Shakespeare, dad?” Hal said.

“ _Titus Andronicus_?” his dad answered. Hal stopped cold in the hall.

“You...you didn't go to university. How the fuck do you know what _Titus Andronicus_ is, let alone make that joke?”

His father shrugged. “Person doesn't need formal learning to like the Bard, fucker. Plus, your mom said you liked Shakespeare. So I found some plays to read.”

Hal nodded slowly and began walking again. Their strides matched after five steps.

“It's not Titus, though.”

“No? One of the raunchy comedies, then?”

“Nope. The histories.”

“Ah,” his father said. They walked into a lift and his father spoke again, “Once more into the breach...” he started.

“--to wall the holes up with our English dead.” Hal finished, and the lift doors closed.


End file.
